


Les Misérables but with Stray Kids

by Omgitsnothing1



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: 1800's France, Cosette!Felix, Enjolras!Hyunjin, Eponine!Woojin, Gavroche!Jeongin, Grantaire!Jisung, Les Misérables AU, M/M, Marius!Chan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-19 02:35:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20202328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omgitsnothing1/pseuds/Omgitsnothing1
Summary: A group of young idealists called the "Friends of the ABC" attempt to overthrow the French government at a street barricade.





	Les Misérables but with Stray Kids

**Author's Note:**

> Les Mis context for better reading: Park Jinyoung is an ex-convict that broke his parole. He now makes a wealthy living. A police officer, Bang Sihyuk, is obsessed with putting him back in jail. At some point, JYP adopts Felix, the son of one of his workers, and although they have lived in Paris for the past nine years, they have a tendency of moving around the city due to JYP's paranoia of being caught by Bang Sihyuk. 
> 
> At the same time, France is suffering from an incompetent monarchy. This inspires a group of young men to start a resistance against the King that they call "Friends of the ABC." Hyunjin is the leader.

To be a commoner is to scrape by franc to franc, crumb to crumb, dust to dust until the day to day labor suffocates you while you sleep. The gleam of diamonds, the rustle of silk curtains, the smooth surface of marble statues, the twinkle of shiny porcelain, and the click-clack of jade beads sliding down a golden string—luxuries which reserve themselves for the wealthy, the better, the lazy. Because time is money and they have plenty of both. 

Kim Woojin has neither. 

His heart yearns for it, craves for it, aches for it even when his eyelids close shut in the exhaustion and the picturesque images project themselves in the darkness of a dream. A dream, an unachievable reality embedded with the paint crusted symbols haphazardly written on wooden signs and carelessly scrawled on wrinkled parchments, tattooed on glass windows, tattooed on his soul as longlasting a thirst as a fish to water. Words he wants to understand, but can't because reading takes time and time is money and he has none. 

Kim Woojin desperately wants to read.

Instead, splinters dig into roughened skin as he dusts away the dirt in his family's shop as if any amount of cleaning can conceal the stain of his heritage. His parents are not the cleanest of fellows which is to say they are conmen. Madame Kim is thin and angular—the kind of sharp edges that patchwork themselves into a dangerous complexion. Young as she is in age, her unpleasantness only rots her appearance. His father, Monsieur Kim, resembles his wife in that aspect. It takes only a glance to distrust a man for his visage is crooked in both directions, a shadow following close behind his too-wide smile. 

He's seen it all with glazed eyes. Their slick trickery knows no bounds as they slip through the cracks of the wall, sell banned and stolen goods behind the counter, and sweet talk their way into the hand-stitched pockets of high-born and low-born society. Dirty hands with dirty faces. Sly people who live con to con, dust to dust. 

Woojin wonders if he too is condemned to the same fate, cut from the same embittered cloth woven by the hierarchy, but staring at how education brings such bright enlightenment to the mind can't stop himself from wanting, longing, trying. 

Two doors smack behind him followed by a bell and a crash—his parents have left. Woojin waits a minute and another. Then, slowly, he tucks his broom between the wall and the counter. From here it is quick and routine. Woojin walks outside, rubbing fruitlessly at his dirt-stricken face, as his eyes scan the area. Right on time, a large ebony black carriage bustles down the crowded street. His knees bend before he clambers onto the back, his small child stature able to hitch a ride with discretion.

"Ello, little Woojin!" greets Madam Seo who owns the bakery a while away.

Woojin smiles lightly as he passes. "Ello, Madame." 

The clouds shift above him and soon the rickety wooden roofs transform into reddish brick and towers of white. The days function like clockwork—Woojin knows the mechanics like the back of his hand from when his parents leave to when they come back. From when the nobles drive by to when they'll come back. He knows it all because this is the only way a kid like him can live the life he believes in. 

He breathes in, out, in, out, and leaps from the back into his designated flower bush. He wrestles himself out of the foliage, picking apart petals and leaves, before ducking his way towards a sturdy old tree. Tiny indentations already mark where his feet have long worn down. 

Up, up, up he goes. In the rushing hours of the afternoon, Woojin nestles himself against the trunk, waiting and waiting. And just like clockwork, he hears the rustle, the sniff, and the familiar turn of the pages. He can almost feel the smooth roughness of the paper beneath his fingertips. 

_Now, where did we leave off?_

A pretty voice begins to speak and Woojin lets himself get wrapped up in the story being brought to life. That feeling of reading a book is enough to get drunk on—the highs of the suspense, the lows of the tragedy, even the mundane inanities of politics. To live and breathe words must be a wonderful gift, for words have the ability to change a person, and every day Woojin feels enriched by the luck of literature indeed.

Today he listens to a story about a young girl forced to work for her evil stepmother until she gets invited to a ball. Woojin nearly, _nearly_ falls off the tree as the reader stalls on the part where the prince is putting the shoes on the stepsisters. But as the routine bids it, the big clock chimes and he could already see the tops of the ebony black carriage rolling through the streets. He must be quicker now that the roads are smoother and less crowded. It'll pain him the day he'll grow too big to hide away on the carriage. 

Woojin slides back down the tree, cursing slightly as his hand catches a splinter. He hears the reader pause, but he sprints off light as a feather before the other could think of turning around. His feet catch the back of the carriage. He already mourns the loss of the pretty voice which allowed him to indulge in his outlandish delusions a little longer.

_Goodbye, words, I hope to see you soon._

.

.

.

"I'm telling you, monsieur, this pocket watch is of the most genuine quality—" 

Woojin zones out his father's regular spiel about their fraudulent wares, too used to the script that he can almost recite them himself if he can feel any less slimy doing so. He works away in the corner, rearranging the items on the shelves with lethargy, the creak of the doorway providing little interest as he is forced to clean and clean until his body bruises. 

He is so sluggish that day he nearly misses it.

"Ahem."

Woojin turns around and he can't help but flinch. A boy a little smaller than himself, but impeccably cleaner stands before him. The comb of his curly dark hair and the near glittering fabric of his clothes state his status without him even having to utter it. An aristocrat speaks to him. 

Silence engulfs them before Woojin finds himself a little rude. He bows slightly. "Uh, hello, uh, sir."

The aristocrat grins at him, but not mockingly. "Nice to meet you! I'm Bang Chan." He stuck out his prim, perfect hand out eagerly and Woojin briefly wondered if he should take it, embarrassed of the filth surely dripping off him in waves. His hesitance proves him foolish for Chan reaches out himself, and they shake hands as firmly as young boys can. 

"Kim Woojin. What is it that you need?"

Chan continues to hold his hand, scanning his unkempt features with narrowed eyes. "I believe I've seen you before. Do you perhaps know who I am?"

Shocked, Woojin takes his own step back to observe Chan. Curly hair, sleek clothing, skin as pale as porcelain, such a familiar stature but nearly every aristocrat is shaped in that vision. Perhaps, a mistake? But Chan seemed so sure.

But it hits him like a horse barreling into his side. A pretty voice, a distinct voice, one that Woojin would know in a heartbeat because it is where his heart lies. He wants to smack himself for not noticing the resemblance sooner. Of course, it is him. His lovely reader who accents his days with his tendency to read his books aloud is right in front of him. 

"Uh, well, yes."

His panic speeds up. If Chan mentions his secret breaks and his parents overhear, he'll be dead. 

Chan's grin grows wider. "I knew it! I've seen you around these streets sometimes." His voice drops to a whisper and Woojin had never been more thankful. "You're always around the bookstore sitting about. Do you like books as well?"

A knot unfurls in his gut as he glances over to the counter and his father is still trying to sleaze his way into the older aristocrats' pockets. Another sigh of relief leaves him as he realizes Chan hasn't seen him skulking about the wealthy area and likely doesn't know about him eavesdropping. 

Woojin says, "Yes, I do. Very much." With a little more shame, he adds, "But I don't exactly know how to read."

"An illiterate who likes books?"

"Yes."

"Well, that can't do." Chan rubs a hand over his chin in contemplation. After a moment, his mouth opens sharply, small fist hitting his palm. He rummages through his leather satchel and draws out a considerably-sized book. Without preamble, he dumps the heavy publication into Woojin's hands, seeming to be brimming with joy at how Woojin nearly drools with the gift. "Here, now you may learn!"

Woojin tries to push it back, wary of his parents' eyes. "Oh no, I can not accept."

"Of course, you can. Here, I'll even help you."

"That is not necessary, sir!"

"Don't you want to know how to read?"

Literacy. Woojin's struggles come to a halt. His unattainable desire dangling right in front of his face. Taut leather, a material he never thought he'd be able to touch, smooths over his skin, a scorching hot wonder, a thirst so palpable he's dying for it. To be able to read, to know, to understand. Yes, it must be a wonderful gift indeed.

Chan's hand smooths over his. Woojin locks eyes with the boy across from him and finds himself stuck in a stupor filled by confident smiles and a rich voice.

And yet, doubt lingers. "Why would you help me?"

Another blinding smile, straight white pearls flashing, gleaming, and Woojin can't help but feel affected by the brilliance. Chan leans forward, speaking lowly again. "A person who so genuinely and so clearly loves to read should be allowed to. People who love things should love them, unabashedly." He leans back, ignoring how flushed Woojin has become. Chan winks clumsily. "Besides, something tells me we'll be good friends."

"Chan, we are leaving this wretched establishment!" calls the older aristocrat. 

Woojin instinctively hides the book behind a shelf stacked near the wall out of his parents' view. 

"I'll see you later?" asks Chan.

"Chan!"

Woojin nods. "Promise."

As they walk out of the shop, Woojin can hear the stampeding of his father's angered footsteps, his mother's strident nagging, and the general tantrum of a job undone, but the routine consequence of the day has no power over Woojin's mind. His eyes are focused on Chan, the boy with the pretty voice and the even prettier smile, grinning at him as he enters his carriage, pale pinky finger raised in a promise. 

Surrounded by dust and a thick book half-concealed by the shadows, Woojin understands then and there he'd follow Chan irrevocably till the end. He'd follow Chan for as long as he'd have him, crimson blooming on his poor-colored cheeks. 

Woojin discretely raises his pinky in return, blossoming with new hope.

.

.

.

Chan has always fallen short when it came to flirtations. Unlike Hyunjin whose handsome features charm all who encounter him, or even Minho whose slick personality provides him with plenty of opportunities of indulgence, the intricate steps of romance that appear so easily in front of others manage to trip him up just as so. It is just his luck that the young women and men that venture into their bar find themselves preoccupied with the other more available and infinitely more enticing members, leaving him with a surplus of time to wallow in his own form of fancies. 

Time is money, so he spends it with care. 

Time is spent pouring over the pages of a book alongside his best friend, Woojin, picking apart the words and running it along his tongue until he becomes one word wiser; it is him strolling through the market, a visionary as he catalogs the poverty around him, as he dreams of a country worth protecting. A dream, a desire—he wonders if his passion truly lies in the resistance or if it also serves as a means to prove himself. It is one thing to believe in an idea, it is another to put it to action. He thinks if he were to voice his concerns, Hyunjin may very well shun him for the resistance has no need for hesitancy.

No, Chan won't be hesitant. He'll continue along as he always has, preaching "Vive le France" to eager eyes and ears, inspiring. Someone who is somebody who wants something. All the while dodging the police by a hair as those dogs of the monarchy skim through the protestors with a fine comb. 

Recklessness flows through his veins—Woojin scolds him constantly for his boldness, bless his soul—but Chan has never known to think twice, rushing in and regretting it after the fact. There is no better way to live than to live as your heart commands it. 

He sits at the bar, thumbing through the newspaper, Woojin ever by his side. 

Jisung slides from across the counter. He drops a stack of papers in front of them. "Up and at 'em, boys! Fresh fliers hot off the press just for you!"

Chan closes the newspaper, ignoring Woojin's yelp of protest. "Where we heading?"

"The market as usual."

"You know, you always give us these fliers, but I never, not once, have seen you hand out fliers yourself," says Woojin, eyeing Jisung warily. 

Jisung chokes a noise of protest. "Excuse me! I help in more ways you can't possibly understand!"

"How so?"

"Look at all this alcohol, the beer, the wine! I am the one man in charge of keeping the members of the ABC happy, passionate—"

"—drunk off their ass—" interjects Chan.

"—and satisfied! If anything, I'm the most important person here. Do you think people join for the revolution? They want the discounts on the beer." He nervously looks around and leans in. "Don't tell Jinnie I said that though, he might have a migraine."

Hyunjin pops in with a frown. "Don't tell Jinnie what."

Jisung quickly shoves the stack of fliers into Woojin's unwilling hands. "Nothing. Only that we're a few fliers short than usual. These guys were just about to go." The bartender stares at them. "Go!"

Chan snickers and grabs the stack from Woojin's arms, heading for the square. It wasn't his favorite activity out there, but he really felt like he was doing his part when the people took the time to read what was on the flier or when fellow revolutionaries tipped their hats at him in acknowledgment. They spend noon approaching citizens and handing them their papers with disguised force. 

"Vive le France, Madame," says Chan, handing out a flier. 

"Vive le France, Monsieur," says Woojin, a little less enthused. 

Chan bumps his hip against his. "C'mon, friend. How do you expect them to be persuaded if you look so mad? We're almost done."

"I'm not mad. I'm just waiting for it."

Chan feels like Woojin has another sense not privy to other human beings. He manages to predict when events are going to occur before one could even think that the event may be occurring. When he asked once when they were younger, Woojin simply replied that the world functioned like clockwork and that things fall into place inevitably with or without his say so.

A fan of spontaneity, Chan still doesn't understand, but regardless of his opinions, this sixth sense has wrangled him out of more than enough misadventures.

"Waiting for what?" he asks.

Woojin takes Chan's share of fliers and chucks it on the ground. "For this." Then, grabbing onto his arm, Woojin begins to shuffle through the crowd of people. "Look behind you!"

It's difficult to discern distinctions amidst a crowd of people, but the dreary grays and tattered browns also make it easy to pick out the standouts. Specifically, police which enters in swarms, roughly shoving this way and that way in their impeccable ebony black uniforms and silver tassels, loud and unabashed of their authority. And right now, Chan can see their semi-circle hats bobbing above the rest of the patchwork commoners, picking up their scattered fliers and ripping them up. 

He loathes them. The dogs of the monarchy. 

Him and Woojin dart through the spaces of the citizens, ducking beneath workers and shimmying past young madames holding tiny umbrellas. Perhaps this is another reason why the resistance lures him in like a moth to light—the thrill of the moment. This. Where adrenaline pumps through every crevice in his body, when his smile burns brightly with the rush, his best friend warm at his side. He wonders if it gets any better than this. 

Woojin shouts, "Split at the alley! Now!"

Chan laughs, mockingly bidding adieu to his friend who rolls his eyes in response. Following orders, however, he breathes hard and proceeds to navigate himself through the network of stairs and turns of the neighborhood he has mapped out in his memory. He ends up at a garden, collapsing but happy, in a patch of grass. 

After a moment, Chan gets back up, patting the grass from his trousers, resolving to leave. But a small tug at his sleeve startles him. 

"I'm sorry, monsieur, but you appear to have dropped this," says a voice deep as the sea. 

Surprisingly when Chan turns, he is further surprised at the prettiness of the speaker, having fully expected an older man to have stopped him. A man clearly younger than him stands before him with a beauty he has never encountered before—silky chestnut hair, seemingly braided with gold reflected by the sunlight, cheeks round and crafted with clouds, a slight rosy complexion upon tan skin, and a gorgeous mouth that surely houses a stunning smile. The more Chan looks at this person, the more there is to admire—the delicacy, the purity, the entire beauty of the portrait which inspires poets to write sonnets, a beauty to go to war for. 

He is stunned, shocked, absolutely flabbergasted. He offers little but a, "What."

"Here."

Chan realizes the beauty holds a paper and he recognizes it as one of his fliers for the resistance. When he moves to take it, their fingers brush and his skin is so soft as it meets his. They linger and Chan breaks out of the trance, scolding himself for acting so strangely. He looks up to apologize but is again stunned by the crimson staining the other's cheeks providing a lovely picture. 

"Felix! We must go!" another man calls out. This man glares at Chan with suspicion, much older, and must be the father of the angel before him. 

"Felix is your name?" asks Chan. 

Felix nods, eyelashes fluttering lightly. "And what is yours if I may be so bold to ask?"

"Chan, it is a pleasure to meet you." If he were Hyunjin, he might have had the courage to wink and if he were Minho he may have even had the guts to lay a kiss on the hand, but as it is he is neither. He is himself who could do nothing but smile goofily at a person too pretty to be real. He most likely won't have another chance if he does not start now. But he's afraid, for once unable to make a decision in front of someone who can render him undone completely. Luckily, he needs not to make bold decisions. 

"No, the pleasure is mine. My father calls for me, but here." Felix takes out his handkerchief and presses it into Chan's hand. He smiles and—ah, yes. Chan is correct for he has never seen anything more stunning. "May fate bring us together again."

A louder, angrier shout. "Felix!" 

"Farewell, monsieur." And as quick as a blink, Felix returns to his father's side, keeping eye contact with Chan until the light of his hair and the echo of his beautiful smile disappear amidst the mixture of grays and browns. 

The soft texture of the handkerchief rubs against his hand. It is a pure white, a single letter L stitched onto the corner. Although a likely symbol of the company of name, Chan can't help the flutter in his chest forming the words at the tip of his tongue. It's a different kind of rush, a slow kind that builds up, that tickles not burns—love. 

He tucks the gift into his pocket, breathless, in wonder, and ah, yes. In love. 

.

.

.

It is not in his nature to hide his emotions, so he doesn't. He and Woojin meet back at their spot at the corner of the bakery and the bookstore, and the skip in his step is laughably prominent. Infatuation bubbles through him. It shows in the curve of his eyes, the bounce of his curls, and in the apple-red of his cheeks. 

Woojin laughs as Chan practically dances his way to him. "What's with you today? Have a glass before you returned?"

"Drunk, am I? Drunk, I may be. Drunk on the alcohol of love."

Woojin's laughter cuts short. "Love?"

"Yes. The prettiest boy spoke to me today at the gardens. Golden skin, rounded cheeks—it was as though I met a cherub. Gorgeous, I tell you. I'm in love, my friend."

"You're in love. What do you know of love? Yesterday, you told me you couldn't understand how romance could fill your life and now you fall at first sight with a pretty face?"

Chan remembers Felix's doe eyes staring into his, the galaxies and the stars hidden behind a wall of chocolate brown. He never thought the color brown could be anything else but drab. "It must be for what else could I be feeling? Nothing else could explain how my heart beats for him."

Woojin scoffs. "Lust and perhaps heartburn considering how much nonsense you eat every day."

"Don't be crude."

"I'm not being crude, you're being ridiculous!"

"How so?"

Woojin's about to blow his top off. "Firstly, you don't know him!"

"His name is Felix."

"You don't know if he loves you back!"

"He gave me his handkerchief to remind me of him."

"And you have no idea where he lives or if you'll even see each other again! You can't just rely on fate to bring you together."

"Well, the gardens—"

"And if he doesn't come back to the gardens?"

Chan stutters, bubbles popping and soon at a loss. "I—I..."

Woojin softens, the redness draining out of his face leaving a mere melancholy expression, shoulders slouching as his arms drop to his sides in defeat. "I... want you to be careful. In the society we live in, it's so easy to latch on to whoever is there for us. It's almost too easy to love and too easy to lose. I don't want that for you, especially if it's mistaken."

Chan shakes his head. "No, I love him. You may not believe so, but I know it even if I've never felt it before because this emotion has to start somewhere. Haven't you ever had a dream, a desire that nagged at you to claim it? Like if you don't have it, then what is there to life but that?" 

Silence permeates in the air between them. Woojin nods, speaking softly. "Yes, I do."

Chan says, "When my eyes met his, it was like a spark in me about to blow. I was so happy, and I've _never_ felt like that before. It's love."

"If that's how you feel. But that still makes at least my last point valid. How will you see Felix again?"

"I'm... not sure." Chan rubs his chin, the gears turning and turning, then his mouth drops. He clutches at Woojin's hands, falling to his knees before his disgruntled friend. 

"No," says Woojin. 

"You don't even know what I'm about to propose."

"You want me to find out where this man lives."

"Okay, so perhaps you do." Chan clutches onto Woojin's hands tighter. "But still, you know this town far more than I ever could and you know everyone that lives here far better than I. You know I would never ask you of this if I could do this alone. Please, my friend."

Woojin hesitates. "And you are sure you are in love with him. This isn't a passing fancy for you to waste your time."

"Of course not. I've never been that kind of man."

"No... you haven't." Woojin sighs, lips flattening into a tight smile. "Fine, I'll do it. Please don't make me regret this."

Chan cheers heartily, rising from his knees to pull his best friend into a tight one-armed hug, planting a friendly kiss on the cheek. "For this, I'll owe you for the rest of my days. You are my best friend."

"Likewise," Woojin agrees lowly. 

.

.

.

Jisung has never cared for the revolution. Behind ear-to-ear smiles is a soul wounded by the reality of his stature, resigned to a fate assigned to him at birth. He was born a peasant, he lives as a peasant, and he will soon die as a peasant. As is the cycle of the monarchy which strikes at his ankles and forces him to crawl to survive, beg to salvage some mercy on him. It's the little mercies that save him—the pristine guitar leaning against the largest wine barrel in spite of the dust accumulating around it, the jubilance of his younger brother, Jeongin, whose passion brings color to the ABC, and the laughter of Hwang Hyunjin that becomes less and less frequent as the resistance grows in size and furor. It's as though the stronger the fire burns, the larger the shadow it casts on his heart. 

_He'll die_, Jisung thinks sourly, though it's a befitting end for a man like Hyunjin, the leader, the symbol of passion. Freedom courses through him in the swagger of his walk and the intonations of his deep voice dripping with liberty. When they were younger, Hyunjin would always say that death is nothing. He is more terrified to die without living first. 

Jisung pours another drink to himself, half a shot away from becoming the complete drunkard of a disappointment the other has come to associate with him as if their years together mattered less in the presence of a vision. The fire burns bright in Hyunjin and it has consumed him, leaving behind the ashes of the boy that enraptured him so. 

Tangerine light filters in through the clear glass windows of the pub. The warm orange wraps itself around containers of mead and reminds him of the first day they met.

Sunset spilled onto cobblestone streets, painting the monochromatic neighborhoods with a rare burst of warmth. It was Jisung's favorite time of day because all the aristocrats come back home in their shiny carriages, pockets full of cash and his guitar could finally mean something. His fingers were calloused from constant practice, but he held on tight to his instrument that could be taken at any moment. It was his prized possession, given to him by his father who fell to a fever, whose chords helped Jisung sing Jeongin to sleep when nightmares plagued him daily. Jeongin who he must now support with his music. 

A few madames and monsieurs stopped by to hear him play, giving him one franc, two until he accumulated a total of five francs. The streets began to empty as the orange deepened, and soon he was playing for no one but himself. And in the silence, he started to sing under his breath.

A coin landed next to his feet. Jisung looked up, voice cracking. A handsome boy he would later come to know as Hwang Hyunjin stood before him, smooth pale skin exposing his wealthiness. Jisung felt flustered under his curious gaze. 

"Why'd you stop?" asked Hyunjin. "You have such a pretty voice."

"Thank you, but it's nothing. I would say I am better with the strings. I still struggle with doing both at the same time."

Hyunjin hummed. "I know how to play the guitar. If I play, may you sing for me? I'll give you another franc for your time."

To this day, Jisung doesn't know why Hyunjin was by himself in the slums especially when a young aristocrat like him is such easy picking for pickpockets, but if their paths hadn't crossed that day, their future destinations may have been vastly different, stars aligned on opposite ends of the universe, in the same orbit never to touch. 

For if they hadn't become friends that sunset, perhaps Jisung would not have been bold enough to visit Hyunjin at his house. If he had not visited Hyunjin's house, perhaps Monsieur Hwang would not have discovered him playing guitar for his son. If he had not discovered them, then perhaps Monsieur Hwang would not have been enraged and smashed his instrument against the floor. Perhaps Jisung would not have been thrown out by his neck. Perhaps Hyunjin would not have cried for him. Perhaps he wouldn't have grown to resent the aristocracy and the monarchy that fostered it. 

Perhaps Hyunjin wouldn't have lost himself in the dream. 

Another swig, another. A smile finds itself on Jisung's face. The haze of the alcohol bubbles in Jisung's throat and he bursts in giggles. It's become one of the only ways he could laugh anymore. 

The door swings wide open with a crack. Chan skips inside with a sullen Woojin trailing shortly behind him, slamming himself on the counter. "Some wine for me, please!"

Changbin wanders over in interest. "Oh? The little bookworms over here seem to have more spice to them than usual?"

Seungmin cackles on the side. "Watch who you call little!"

"Quiet!" 

Jisung slides the glass of wine over to Chan, leaning forward. "I agree! What's got you guys in such a good mood? You are never this excited to be here."

And it was true. Chan is a new addition to the ABC, a stray drawn in by Changbin whose easy-going personality managed to charm the man into the resistance. But while Chan was in the ABC, it always seemed like he was a guest rather than a full-fledged guns blazing member. He sat in the corner of the room and made small talk. Charming but not personable. To be so eager and inclusive something spectacular must have occurred. 

"I've met a lad today," he says cryptically, but his cheeks were a beaming red. 

"A lad!"

"Yes, he looked like an angel. You should have seen him, Hannie. Left me completely breathless."

Minho saunters up to the counter, a teasing smirk playing on sculpted lips. "I am shocked. Channie has fallen in love at last!"

On the other side of the room, Hyunjin is discussing manners by which to rally the people into resisting alongside them. Jisung lifts a cup of beer and shouts, "Hear that, Hyunjin? While you're out there planning battles, Don Juan over here is having fun with his lover boy. Maybe you can learn something from that!"

Hyunjin looks up from his papers and rolls his eyes at Jisung's antics. He focuses his anger on Chan instead. Luckily, it's a small room so he has no need of straining his voice. "Chan. You have to start focusing on the resistance! Now that the time is nigh, you have less time for pleasantries!"

Chan stands up, affronted. "Felix is not just another pleasantry. It's love. And it's certainly worth more than this."

Jisung can't help the involuntary noise wheezing out his system. Judging by the way Minho chokes on his drink he is not alone in this sentiment. If there is a sure-fire way to inspire Hyunjin into a long-winded rant, it is disrespecting the resistance no matter how slight.

Hyunjin strides across the room and gets in Chan's face. "Listen here, rich boy, this is not a game that you can play at your will! The world changes by the day and I'll be damned to watch as that damned King controls it while people like you care not! There are prices and if you can't pay it, then you have no place here!" Hyunjin then turns to appeal to the other members. "Red is not the color of love! It is the blood of angry men who can't stand as their homeland is ruined by the crown! Black is the color of the night before it dawns into a new day to fight!"

Chan scoffs. "And so the rest doesn't matter?"

"Who cares about your lonely soul? We are striving for something bigger than this, bigger than _you_."

While they squabble, Jisung pours another glass of beer and pushes it toward Woojin who has been suspiciously silent. "You look as though you've seen a ghost."

Woojin has become somewhat of a father figure to him despite their age gap not being large. The broadness of his stature combined with the solemn way they both managed to relate to each other's emotional travesties spearheaded the companionship they foster now. Now, he is painted with the color of despair. 

Woojin takes the cup with gratitude. "Hello, Hannie. I... have simply come to the conclusion that I am pathetic." 

"That's nothing new," agrees Jisung. "It appears your loverboy is, well, in love, my friend and if I were to guess, you're fanning the flames?"

"Is it a friend now?" Woojin laughs bitterly. "I hate the word. Though you mustn't judge me."

"I never could. Not while we wallow in the same boat of self-pity."

"Pathetic, both of us. Both in love with a man that loves another, although at least mine longs for a person and not a landmass."

Jisung giggles. "He's passionate, okay."

"He's an idiot."

They both down their cups of beer in one shot. Their fragile equilibrium is broken with the crack of wood on wood. 

Jeongin runs through the doors, his face contorted with urgency. "Guys! Guys! General Lamarque is dead! The funeral will take place in three weeks!" 

Hyunjin stills. Jisung watches as his eyes widen before his body rises to the top of a table with glee. "This is it! This is what we were waiting for!" He jumps off and points at Seungmin. "Minnie, gather the ammunition we've been storing up. Emotions will be running high during the funeral and we must take advantage of that. We will build a barricade upon his tomb! This day will live on in history! VIVE LE FRANCE!"

The crowd erupts back in a cacophony of uproarious cheers. "VIVE LE FRANCE!"

Fear grapples him in its claws, throat catching on itself. They're so young and yet so ready to die for this unattainable concept of equality. Screaming this damned phrase with a gun on one hand and their dreams on another. 

_Equality is an illusion,_ Jisung knew. _Everyone's equal when they're dead. _

If someday Hyunjin decides to leave it all behind, Jisung would abandon it in a heartbeat. If Hyunjin wants to ride to his death, Jisung would undoubtedly follow him into the dark. But as it is now, he can only pour himself another shot and watch as Changbin wraps his arm around Seungmin, as Minho dances with himself, as Hyunjin and Jeongin pour over maps and methods and freedom and hope. 

"A round for the boys, Hannie!" Hyunjin jubilantly calls.

Jisung smiles ear-to-ear, bursting out into giggles. Laughter is sunshine, it chases winter from the human face. Until then, he prays his love aids Hyunjin in his struggle against the cold. For now, he'll pour drink after drink for the man who holds his unconditional devotion.

.

.

.

The burn of alcohol sliding down his throat compares not to the shatter of his heart as he cuts himself picking up the pieces. He never thought that Chan's smile could break him, and yet Chan's happiest brings Woojin the most sorrow. Years spent by his side in silence, convincing himself that greed is unbecoming of him. That he shouldn't dare ask for more. A commoner and an aristocrat. A crook and a scholar. 

He heard once that if he repeats a phrase enough, it'll come true. _I'm happy for him. I'm happy for him. I'm happy._ Because Chan comes first and that's how it has always been.

It is nothing but a minor inconvenience to find out where Lee Felix lives. For one, no one in France has a name like Felix with a face as stunning as Chan describes it. A birdie on the street tells Woojin all about a father and son that recently moved into the house nestled between Madame Pontmercy's and Monsieur Mortemart abodes. It's a short distance away from where Chan resides. It seems even without this information, Felix and Chan would have inevitably bumped into each other. Another example of fate working against him again. 

After ironing out the details of the so-called Barricade Day, Woojin and Chan leave the pub in lower spirits. The scolding Chan received from Hyunjin weighs heavily on his shoulders. 

If he agreed with Hyunjin now, it wouldn't be wrong. If he pretended not to know anything, it wouldn't be wrong. But in the end, the truth reveals itself: Kim Woojin wholeheartedly, unabashedly, unconditionally loves Bang Chan and while Chan's smile may bring him sorrow, Chan's sadness fills him with despair.

Heavy heartedly, Woojin stops their walking.

Chan stops, confused. "What?"

He digs into his pocket and takes out a piece of paper. He lifts Chan's hand and presses it inside. "Felix's address. A few blocks away from yours."

Chan's face lights up as though happiness is a person and that person is him. "Thank you so much." The other holds his hand and his face softens. "Seriously, _thank you_. I'm so glad you are in my life."

Woojin's aches. "Likewise."

"I... I'm going to visit him now. Go on without me!" Chan can't stifle the excitement flooding out of him. It takes him no time at all to begin sprinting in the direction of Felix's house. 

Woojin stares at the dim light of the moon and wonders if he'll ever see daylight again. 

.

.

.

Parts of him know himself to be illogical in his infatuation. To fall in love with astronomical beauty, he scolds himself for his superficial reasonings and his feeble attempts to defend their shallow depths. But all manners of affection begin with a connection. Whether it be two people brushing hands on a saturated sunset afternoon, or the silent exchange between smiling eyes, a spark piercing through the heart, stars piercing through the soul. Love begins when two people meet. 

Chan has met a man in love. He walks as though the cobblestone street beneath him is made of clouds. He speaks as if he's not known grander punishment. He's a fool living _la vie en rose_. People gawk at him, find him naive. People gossip about the crash because they know how it ends, it always ends. They were once in love too.

And so it may very well be true—this desire perishing before he begins—but to live is to experience. He must learn to love in all the ways it may disappoint him. 

He stands before pearly white gates, standing at the address his best friend has given him. His illogical mind akins the barrier to the gates of Heaven where he must plead for salvation.

The moon dangles above him and Chan curses his eagerness. Idiot he is. Felix might already be sleeping and he's acting like a crook walking about the side of the home. His head bumps against the gate in his despair, causing it to jangle loudly. 

Chan startles, about to leave, but is stopped by a glorious baritone.

"Chan, is that you?" Felix emerges from a garden of white roses, clothes light and loose. He wonders if he's hallucinating after smacking his head too hard on the metal gates. 

The handkerchief Felix gave him rests in his breast pocket. Chan breathes in, breathes out, and tries not to stutter. Tries to mimick a semblance of charm rather than the reality of him randomly visiting this man at the crack of dawn. "Hello, monsieur, quite the lovely night we're having, aren't we?" 

Felix purses his lips as he approaches the gate. Chan's hands shakily come up to hold onto the spires. "It _is_ a lovely night which begs me to wonder why you're here. Or rather how you've come across my address?"

"I believe I've fallen madly in love with you. Wait—no—I mean, I couldn't stop thinking of you since we met so I had my friend discover the whereabouts of your housing." The words spill out and Chan can't stop. He wishes he could. "That is worse. I apologize. I meant—"

Felix giggles, his small hands rising to cover Chan's. They're even softer than he remembers. "I never said it was a bad thing. I mean, I did tell you we'd meet again though it's sooner than I expected."

"I'm so sorry. I'm doing everything all wrong."

"I wonder what you think is right then." 

"Perhaps a full name? To start mine is Bang. Bang Chan."

"Lee. Lee Felix."

Chan scrambles to remove the handkerchief from his pocket. "Lee for the 'L'?"

Felix smiles brightly. "You kept it with you. Yes, though I would like to think it can represent much more."

"Such as?"

"Love."

Ice breaks and giggles roll out of his chest at the word. Felix joins in his laughter. This uneasy flirtation, tiptoeing around their mutual attraction, yearning to spiral into the heap of emotions swirling between them, hesitating as to not get caught in the mess. Awkward and messy and smitten—two people making a connection. Two people falling fast with each encounter. 

Chan has met a man in love and it's the man reflecting back at him in Felix. His heartbeats slow. The butterflies calm. Stars rest in their blankets of midnight, eavesdropping on a conversation whispered between a gate, hands intertwined in the cold. 

A door shuts in the distance. Felix lets go, and Chan laments the loss of warmth. 

"I'm sorry. I must go."

"So soon? It's been but half an hour."

"Yes, my father is home and I cannot be away," says Felix with a frown, already beginning to retreat into the maze of roses. 

"And shall we meet again tomorrow?" asks Chan, but it seems fruitless. His arms fall to his side as Felix's hair fades between the viridian leaves. 

He sighs, satisfied with what he got, but he pauses at the rustle of the foliage and the emergence of golden locks. Felix surges forward, grabbing onto the collar of Chan's jacket pulling him in. Light as snow and as quick to be gone, he kisses Chan on the corner of his mouth. 

"Of course we can," whispers Felix—light, so light on his lips—before he runs back towards his house. 

Chan stands stunned in his place, forcing himself to trudge back home where his mind wanders beyond. He's left a piece of him with the other, likewise how Felix will always be a part of him. He falls asleep not himself, the echo of Felix fluttering behind his closing eyelids haunting him forevermore. 

It began with a single glance. The power of a glance has been so abused in love stories that it has come to be disbelieved in. Few people dare now to say that two beings have fallen in love because they have looked at each other. Yet it is in this way that love begins, and in this way only. 

.

.

.

Reading sessions are cut shorter and shorter, making room for Chan to talk incessantly about his midnight rendezvouses with Felix. About how his laughter sounds like the roar of the seven seas, about how his freckles are a sign of the sun kissing him awake every day, about how he reads the same books as he does and more and _oh, he's so educated, Woojin,_ _I'm swooning_. 

With each gushing praise, with each sonnet written in his likeness, Woojin's chest sinks deeper within itself. Shoulders slouching, back hunching, face paling. It took a single glance for Chan to be taken away from him. How much time is left until he becomes a thought to be forgotten? 

Woojin has tried to forget his love for the other, has found himself flipping through books to lose himself in his sorrows, but what is a book if the words have left the pages? What is a story if he lacks a companion to finish beside him? A small part of him detests Felix for his beauty, detests Chan for falling for it. 

No—envy is an even uglier form of greed—he should be ecstatic for Chan who has long shunned romance like the plague. In this relationship, affection for his lover and for his friends grows by the day. But each sentence cuts through him like a dagger. He's bleeding out onto the pavement, but Chan cares not for the injury. 

Tensions are running high on today. It's the eve of the proclaimed Barricade Day. But while the other ABC members busy themselves with restocking ammunition and stacking guns, he breaks the skin of his palm, trembling at his friend's suggestion.

Chan beams, glows as he pats Woojin on the back. "I want you to meet Felix. He's been dying to know the person who brought us together again."

Woojin swirls the lukewarm wine in his cup. "I'm not sure. I might have to stay behind and help the resistance. Very important day tomorrow." 

"Since when have you ever cared for such preparations?" Never. Woojin has only ever helped out to support Chan's fancies, but he'll give petty excuses if it meant not putting a face to the thief that stole his dream away. "Please, you two are the most important people in my lives. I want you to meet." 

He puts his cup down. He'd rather not fight a losing battle. "When?"

"In a few minutes if we can. Felix and I always meet at the same time for about half an hour. So we need to make haste." Chan lays down a few francs on the table, rising from the bar. 

"Half an hour each night? For all you talked about him, I would have expected a little more. How can you suffice with that?"

"I fell in love with him in a matter of seconds. Half an hour is more than generous."

Woojin frowns in disbelief but smooths his sour expression. He allows Chan to excitedly tug on his sleeve as they left the ABC behind, navigating through the maze-like alleys of the city to meet Lee Felix, the perfect, beautiful aristocrat, the man of Chan's dreams. He conceals how with every step his stomach plummets deeper and deeper, how with each foot forward it was like walking on spikes on his way to the guillotine, how with each shaky breath the mask of neutrality he wore cracks further.

They halt in front of a two-story house that looks ripped from a fairytale with its white decor and garden of roses surrounding the edifice like a boat. Chan walks toward the gate, shaking it slightly, enough to make noise but not draw attention. 

An elf with golden hair and skin surfaces from behind the leaves. Woojin hates to admit it, but Chan embellished nothing in his descriptions of Felix whose beauty could not be skewed no matter how hard he may try to twist it. Somehow it makes him feel even worse. 

Felix smiles with his whole face. "Channie!" It takes a full moment for him to notice Woojin. "Oh? Who is this?"

Chan steps aside, forcing Woojin to emerge from the shadows. "This is Kim Woojin. He's been my best friend since childhood." 

Felix bows. "It is a pleasure to meet you. My name is Lee Felix." 

"Pleasure is mine." 

"He's also the one who discovered your address for me. You have him to thank for us reuniting so soon."

Woojin grins. "Though I never thought he'd make it this far, I'll take credit for your union." He dodges the jab to the stomach Chan tries to throw at him. 

Perfect, perfect Felix with his laughter that does roll deep from within him like the roars of the seven seas, whose freckles twinkle like stars, who's making it harder and harder for Woojin to bear it. He thought foolishly perhaps observing the couple look at each other like their souls were cut from the same cloth would open himself up to reality. It only drove the dagger deeper in his wound. 

Slowly, slowly, he shuffles back into the shadows. 

Chan turns. "Where are you going, Woojin?"

Woojin smiles with melancholy. "I forgot I had something left to do at home. Go on without me. I insist."

Felix's doe eyes stare into him imploringly. "Can't you stay awhile longer? I wish to be better acquainted."

"No, I'm afraid not, monsieur. I will say it was nice putting a face to the name." 

Without waiting for a response, Woojin starts to walk back, head hung down and feet skidding along the path. His mask collapses and a rush of tears frame his face. They barely reach the bottom of his cheeks before he roughly rubs them away. It is a useless action to cry over the inevitable. If it weren't Felix it would have been another aristocrat who may not have been as beautiful and as kind. He has no right to the stinging in his eyes because he held no claim on Chan's heart. 

Orange light peeks around the corner, skimming the tips of his shoes. Woojin follows the light and gasps in horror. A mob of the most crooked and sly peasants festers like a cold sore as they gather around a tall, imposing figure holding a torch. It's his father, yellow teeth sneering, pointing his bony finger towards Felix's house. "IT'S THIS WAY! I SAW THE FRAUD AND HIS SON!"

Woojin's blood runs cold as he realizes his parents' plan to rob the Lee's. 

His feet can't move fast enough. Woojin sprints through the alleyways using every shortcut he has accumulated in all the years he's lived in this city, ducking and running and heaving, racing against the daunting orange light which licks at his heels. 

He can see the spires of the gate from yards away. "CHAN!" he hollers at the top of his lungs. "RUN! PEOPLE ARE COMING!"

Luckily, the street is deserted of a certain aristocrat, but Woojin worries for the state of the Lee's. 

A deep voice beckons for him. Felix looks at him hurriedly from behind the gate. "Monsieur Woojin, may you come over here?"

Woojin pants heavily. "Felix, you must warn your father. You aren't safe here. There's a mob—" he heaves.

Felix pats his back. "Do not overexert yourself. My father knows already. He has seen the light of the mob and we are preparing to move."

"Move?" His throat dries. "But what of Chan?"

Felix holds out a piece of paper. "My father came home early so Chan left before I could warn him. May you please bring this message to him? We are heading to London tomorrow. I want him to come with us. This is the address to the inn where we will stay temporarily."

Woojin is at a loss of what to do. With this, he'll truly lose Chan for the rest of his life, but on the other hand, his friend will be all the happier for it. The answer is obvious. He takes the letter with a weak smile. "Of course. I'll try." 

"Thank you, monsieur Woojin!" Felix beams and Woojin feels even sicker. 

He stands with his legs trembling with the weight of the letter in his hands, watching as Felix departs with his father into a carriage. Right on time as well for he saw the lights of torches from afar. Swiftly he makes his own escape into the night, a storm raging within him, choices tottering in his head. 

His legs give out when he reaches Chan's complex. He bangs on the door.

Chan opens it, hair curlier from sleep, lips swollen. "Woojin? I thought you had something to do earlier."

"Felix is gone!" 

The lethargy snaps out of Chan. Chan grasps him by the shoulders. "What on Earth do you mean? We've seen him moments ago! Are you mad!"

"No. I tell nothing but the truth to you. He's has fled not only from Paris but from the country as well. I bumped into Felix before he left. His father has deemed it dangerous to stay here amidst the tension. I just saw their carriage leave!"

"No," Chan says, shaking his head, "No."

He begins to walk back to the Lee's but Woojin stops him. "He's not going to be there. The house is being ransacked by crooks as we speak"

"Without a goodbye? He wouldn't do that. Not to us. Tell me he left me with something. Anything."

Chan's golden glow dims to a pale complexion. His eyes brim with tears as an emotion Woojin is all too familiar with overwhelms his face—heartbreak, shattering his best friend into pieces he may never pick up again. He's never seen the other so utterly broken before.

_Anything_, he says.

A snake coils around his neck biting into his hand where the letter burns his fingertips. Woojin slips the paper into his pocket. Envy is an ugly feeling, even uglier when it engulfs you entirely. 

"I'm sorry," says Woojin as Chan breaks down in his arms. The snake coils tighter around him. "He's gone."

.

.

.

Jisung contemplates pouring himself another shot. It's tempting. He might drink until he passes out and perhaps when he wakes up this inescapable tragedy reveals itself to be a mere fever dream. He'll raise his groggy head, blink away the haze, and the bar will be deserted. Long fingers will run through his messy locks, and Hyunjin will be smiling at him teasingly, the weariness of the world washed from his handsome face. 

Oh, what a dream it would be. A scenario where flowers hang where guns are sardined on the wall, where bon-bon chocolates scatter the tables rather than the cold metal of ammunition, where the ABC are young men in college, drunk off their asses and safe from harm. Where they live to sing another day. 

A symphony of cheers erupts sporadically throughout the day, arriving in waves and pockets. The men are buzzing with adrenaline. Even Changbin, the laziest of them, has abandoned his seat to dance jigs around the room. 

But his focus lies on Hyunjin, as it always does, who stands before a crowd of men who are not preoccupied with spreading the word or gathering materials. His deep voice carries throughout the room—charismatic, powerful, bright like Apollo. 

The doors creak open and Woojin rarely walks in first, followed by Chan. Jisung moves to greet them with his signature exuberant greeting, but the shorter man looks wrecked. Chan's bouncy curls fall flat on his head, his pale skin whitening further until he falls a shade short of ghostly. When he walks, he hunches, but at least his determined gaze remains untouched. 

Jisung immediately turns to Woojin for an explanation, but the older's troubled expression wards him off. Guilt hangs over him like a shadow. It follows quick on his footsteps. 

Chan shuffles between the busy pub to where Hyunjin is about ready to finish his plans.

Hyunjin looks up before sneering. "Well, if it isn't loverboy. I thought the revolution meant nothing compared to _Lixie_."

Chan flinches at the name. "I came to a conclusion. Romance comes and goes in seasons. It will return. However, the revolution is now. Tell me what I could do to help." He stands firmly before Hyunjin, but Jisung can tell lies the way God knows sinners in a glance. Chan does not believe the gospel he preaches. He's lost it. 

For better or worse, Hyunjin fails to notice, face breaking out into an eager grin as he pulls Chan in for a one-armed hug. "Happy to know you've finally come to your senses! We leave for the funeral procession at noon. There is plenty of time for you to help."

Chan nods, shoulders heavy as he disappears into the chaos of preparations. He doesn't walk like a man ready to die, he walks like a man who wants to. 

Jisung can't bear to be silent any longer. "Jinnie!" he shouts. 

Hyunjin's smile grows wider at his call. He approaches Jisung with his head cocked high and smug. "What is it, Sung?"

Jisung licks his lips. "Can we... go somewhere in private? I know you're busy, but I-I want to talk before our big moment."

"Of course. Let's go to my office." 

They walk up the pub stairs to a small space Hyunjin claimed as his office. It's all wood and half in shambles, but there are pieces of him scattered around the space. Newspaper clippings line up wall-to-wall beside guns and guitars and forgotten jackets. A picture Jeongin drew of the three of them holding hands carefully framed sits on his desk. 

This pub is the first place they had to themselves—a beat-down shack Hyunjin bought on a whim after Jisung and Jeongin were kicked out onto the streets with nowhere to go. He wants to lose himself in the memory. But memories won't help him now. The present is a tragedy and he owes it to the past to at least attempt to rewrite the ending set out before them. 

Before Jisung could speak, Hyunjin turns and engulfs him in a suffocating embrace. The curve of his dopey smile presses into his neck, leaving shivers. "We've done it," he says. "This is what we've been waiting for, Sung." He leans back, face falling into a frown after his hug is not returned. "What's wrong? Why are you so cold?"

Long fingers thread through Jisung's hair. He cringes away from Hyunjin's embrace. "We can't go through with this."

"What?"

"This barricade. For so long, I've stayed by your side with a smile, supporting you and your cause. But no longer. Our lives are at stake. These men, our friends, are being strung along by a promise that cannot be kept. The consequences are not worth the price of a pitiful dream."

Hyunjin steps back, scorned. "Pitiful dream? Our freedom, our equality—this is no pitiful dream. You know how much this means to me. It's the one thing I've desired my entire life."

"Of course I do! I was there. I still am even though I had a heart attack each time the police knocked on our doors. I was there even though I can't stand the sight of blood let alone guns. I was there for you even though you continue to act like an idiot!"

Once upon a time, Hyunjin allowed himself to be swayed by Jisung's suggestions, but the years wore down on their relationship and France fell into shambles and his desires bloomed into an impenetrable fortress. A spark will grow until it is a blazing ember that consumes the path of which it walks. He's burning. Red—the color of passion. Red—the color of Hyunjin. 

Hyunjin growls in frustration, grabbing a book from his desk and hurling it against the wall. Jisung does not flinch. "Why did you stay then? If you sat back and thought of me an idiot this entire time. Every plan that you helped me with! Every event you participated in! Why did you stay?"

Why? The answer is simple. It has never changed.

"Because _I love you,_" shouts Jisung, voice cracking with desperation. and you have never looked so much more passionate than when you talked about France and I accepted that but now France will destroy you! It already has! Look at us!" He tries to touch Hyunjin's cheek, but the other turns away. "You haven't slept in days! I haven't seen you relaxed in weeks! Do you know what awaits for you on the other side of that barricade?"

Hyunjin remains silent, bold eyes defiant. 

"Death, Jin. There is nothing but death."

"Maybe so," he says, "but at least our deaths will mean something."

Jisung's hands clutch close to his chest. He searches Hyunjin's glacial expression for a dash of hesitation and hint of regret, but he is greeted with a stubborn determination hidden behind an icy stare. Despair shoots through him. He's too late. He's been later for a long time. 

"You're mad," laments Jisung. "I should've stopped you the moment I saw it infect you."

In a new heat, Hyunjin surges forward, pushing on Jisung's chest. "You're the reason I'm doing this in the first place! I am fighting for a world where you stand on the field as I, where people like you need not want, because you'll have. You are the one person I thought would understand me."

"I don't. Not anymore," says Jisung quietly.

"Then, leave!" 

"I _can't_."

"Fine. I don't care. I'll go." Hyunjin shoves past him. "Vive le France."

"Hyunjin..." whispers Jisung as a final cry to the boy he loves. The man he never knew walks away. _Please_.

.

.

.

Noise brackets him on all sides. Men and women scream at each other across the street. ABC members shove tables and desks and chairs and chests on top of each other, forming a barricade miles high and just as thick. Even more furniture contributed by the people rains down around them. In the midst of it all, Chan sits with his back pressed against it, a torch trembling in his hands. His grandfather would laugh. Brainy Chan whose interests lies in whatever book his sticky hands land on fighting for his life in the name of a tiny resistance. Madness. 

A loud boom blasting near his ear makes him consider what led him to this point. 

The ABC members had mixed in with the other French citizens to observe General Lamarque's funeral procession. Horses as tall as he surrounded the casket, mounted by even taller soldiers. Seungmin was holding onto his hand tightly. From there, the rest of the remaining details whizzed past him like a blur. One minute Chan was standing on the side and the next minute Hyunjin had climbed General Lamarque's casket with a blood-red flag and bullets started to fly. Chan had mounted an abandoned horse, knocking aside policeman with his stolen firearm, before riding his steed to the pub where the barricade laid. 

And so, Chan now sits in place, flinching as another bullet smacks against the wood. While the structure is huge, the increasing amount of bullets hitting the barricade and the booming sound of the army's footsteps pose danger to them. The ABC still need to gather their bearings. 

Chan looks about him. Seungmin stands to his left, throwing more furniture onto the wall. To his right, Minho loads his musket with ammunition. The bullets keep coming. A volley pierces through Changbin's arm. Two members fall to the floor dead. 

Another clamber of steps. Chan jumps to his feet hurriedly. The soldiers are climbing up the barricade. Minho shoots a few, but he won't be able to defend for much longer. They need a distraction or else they'll be overrun in an instant and it'll all be for naught.

His eyes catch on an object. There. 

Chan drags a barrel of gunpowder to the top of the barricade. His tilts his torch towards it. "CLEAR OUT OR I'LL BLOW UP THE BARRICADE AND MYSELF WITH IT!"

Shouts and shrieks throw themselves at him, but he's unafraid. Though his actions are impulsive, his resolve is firm. He is willing to die right now. His world is already dead without Felix by his side to help him cherish it. The army officer must recognize the fearlessness in his glare for he commands the army to retreat. 

Chan lets out a breath, shakily returning to his friends. They badger him with scolds and praises. 

"Thank you," says Changbin, arm bandaged up. 

"You crazy fucking bastard," says Minho, cackling. 

Hyunjin pats him on the back. "You were brave."

But Chan waits for a certain broad-shouldered bookworm to scream his head off about his reckless antics, but Woojin is nowhere to be seen. He should have returned from the funeral procession by now or should at least be in the pub distributing weapons. Chan jogs around a bit, searching anxiously for his best friend. 

A scratchy voice calls out into the dusty air. "Ch-Chan." He turns around. The voice repeats himself again breathily. "Over here. Beside you."

Chan spots Woojin's hunched figure in the distance. Dread fills him, rushing by his side. "Jin, what's wrong? Hey, look at me." He tilts Woojin's face toward him which is contorted with pain. "Are you injured? We must get you inside where they will tend to you! C'mon!"

"Don't bother," says Woojin, grimacing. He releases the hand on his stomach to reveal his pierced stomach. "Not even the most skilled surgeon could mend this."

"Don't say that." Chan moves to call for help, but Woojin grabs onto him. 

"I am dying, Channie." His breathing staggers. Chan cries out, begging to move him, to be met with a shaking head. "Please. Stay here with me. At least until I fall asleep."

A daze whirring through his head and his insides churning, Chan obeys his friend's final request, even though he crumples like paper. He holds his best friend in his arms as though the other is made of the finest glass. 

Woojin smirks. "It's so comfortable here. I thank my luck to be held by the world in my final moments of suffering."

"Please don't jest."

Woojin chuckles. "I suppose not." He then begins to speak dreamily as though not speaking to Chan at all. "But to me, it is not a jest. It's strange how our fates aligned for you to become the axis by which I revolve around. Every day I lived better, knowing I would wake up and you'd be by my side. Has your desire ever burned so deeply you'd die for it?"

Chan does not understand Woojin's ramblings, but still, he holds him tighter to his chest, trying to make sense.

Woojin curls into him, voice becoming drearier and drearier. "I pride myself of my pragmatism. But with you, it flutters away. The second that soldier aimed his gun at you, there was no other choice. It's you. It's always you."

Words die on Chan's tongue—of regret, of remorse, but he need not speak for the other attempts to sit up. The hole in his torse bursts with crimson. "Stop! Don't move!"

"No. I must honor my last request to die without sin," replies Woojin. He reaches his bloodied hand into his coat pocket, taking out a crinkled parchment. Chan's name is written on it in cursive script. He takes it with a frown. "It's a letter from Felix. How ironic that is it I who didn't want you to go, but now I'm the one leaving. I'm so sorry."

The world spins before him as he clutches onto the letter. Hiccups raise in his sore throat as he tries to hold in the tears clouding his vision. He can't bring himself to feel anything other than impeccable sorrow.

"I am so, so sorry for my selfishness," gasps Woojin. "Do not hate me for it, though I do not blame you if you do." 

"Don't worry about me. You are the one who is hurt! You are the one that matters!"

"It is too late for me." Woojin nuzzles into Chan's arms. "But it is fine for I feel no pain. With you here, all is well." More blood spills from the wound, prompting a pained groan and a quiet request. "May you kiss me—just on my head? Promise me, Chan. I want to die under your warmth."

"I promise."

Woojin's chapped lips curve into the gentlest smile and Chan sees in it the nervous young boy he met at the store, so overcome with innocent joviality when Chan gave him a single book. How lucky he is that their paths have crossed. Tears leak from his eyelashes and fall upon the other's brow. Leaning down, he presses his trembling lips where the liquid scattered. 

Woojin's body relaxes, beginning to drift. An ache pounds against his ribcage, feeling like half of his soul was ripped away from him, but then Woojin's coffee-colored eyes flutter open again. He whispers weakly with a voice sweet and pure as sugar—

"By the way, my friend, I think I fancied myself a little bit in love with you." 

.

.

.

Hyunjin's hands shake as Seungmin, Changbin, and Minho have to pry a sobbing Chan off Woojin's corpse. He refused to let go for hours, even when the clouds formed above them and rain beat down on his back. He clutched onto the body tightly until his knuckles turned white and his friend's body had run cold. He can't imagine the amount of pain Chan is going through. The thought that it might have been Jeongin or Jisung—_no_, he must not let his thoughts run wild. They are safe within the pub and may flee at any time. 

With a final push, Minho wrenches him off while Seungmin and Changbin drag the body to join the cadaver lineup, choking on their own tears. 

Chan stumbles back into the pub, grabbing for a pencil. He scribbles onto a paper and hands it to Seungmin, telling him of a location that Hyunjin recognizes as a nearby inn.

He has no time to ponder upon their activities, however, for while his heart mourns for him, a more serious problem faces them. Their ammunition is running low and the French army inches closer by the hour. With the people falling silent in the face of the revolution, unrest wallows between the members of the ABC. 

Arguments arise and fester between them. For once, Hyunjin is at a loss at what to do, what to say, anything to quell the panic surely about to overwhelm them. He can't blame them. He talked large to Jisung, but all the promises in the world can't prepare him for the dark abyss that awaited on the other side. 

_"Do you hear the people sing? Singing the song of angry men?"_

Hyunjin's head snaps to his left where Jeongin stands, his voice a lighthouse in the sea. Men gather around him to listen to their anthem. 

_"It is the music of the people who will not be slaves again."_

It is in this setting that Hyunjin realizes how painfully young the boy is. Jeongin is a child, years younger than himself, but holds more spunk in him than Hyunjin has in his pinky. A part of him regrets dragging the boy along with his schemes, but another part of him knew it was inevitable. If not him, it would have been another, or it would have simply been Jeongin himself. People call him the embodiment of freedom, but they have no idea. 

_"When the beating of your heart echoes the beating of the drum."_

Jeongin walks about, hands up encouragingly. The ABC members join in resolutely, the familiar song reminding them of what they believed in, of why they're fighting this fight. Yes, it is hopeless, as they've begun to understand, but they'd be damn sure to go out guns blazing and causing chaos. 

Who would have known the littlest of them all would be the bravest? 

_"There is a life about to start when tomorrow comes!"_

With the conclusion of the song, Hyunjin turns his gaze upward to the second story window where Jisung is undoubtedly watching. Their eyes meet, and Hyunjin smiles. _You raised him well_. But Jisung scoffs, retreating inside, and a pang shoots through his chest. 

He brushes the dismissal off and raises his voice. He's a leader. "Well, we have a barricade to defend, don't we?"

With renewed vigor, the rebellion bumbles to life, their efforts doublings. Minho approaches him with a grimace. "Jin, all our ammunition is wet from the rain. We have to find more."

Chan pops in the conversation. His eyes are fraught with deep bags, but he's no longer a deathly pale. "The dead bodies on the barricade are dry, so the ammunition on them should be too."

Minho disagrees. "Everything should still be wet through though."

The three of them discuss the state of the guns, ignorant to their surroundings. Had they paid more attention to who was eavesdropping, they may have seen a determined young boy disappearing into the barricade. 

.

.

.

The drawing of the three of them holding hands nestles itself in Jisung's arms. It's crude and ugly and everything you may expect of a child's drawing, but it captures their most important features. Hyunjin's mole. Jeongin's dimple. Jisung's tiny triangle scar. And of course, their beaming, crooked smiles looking like three peas in a poverty-stricken pod. 

He takes another swig of wine, finger tracing the fading outlines of them. His nail caresses the curve of Jeongin's cheek. Jeongin, his sweet younger brother he sacrificed everything for—his food, sleep, and optimism. It went to him and Jisung harbors no regret. If he was born in another life and he had the option to be with his brother and poor or a single child and rich, he'd scrape francs off the ground again in a heartbeat. Music sounds better with a companion to share it with. 

Suddenly, he remembers the song and it worries him. It showed him how badly Jeongin wants freedom, almost as much or already as much as Hyunjin does. And that is dangerous. 

An uneasiness in his gut, Jisung sets the frame down and saunters to the window. He scans his least favorite baroque painting. ABC members push against the barricade while others scramble to add more wood to the structure, ripping apart floorboards and machines to add mass. Hyunjin, Chan, and Minho argue amongst themselves directly below. But something is amiss in this scenario. There is something terribly wrong with this picture. 

Jisung drops his bottle. Jeongin is nowhere to be seen. 

"Jeongin!" he screams to Hyunjin who startles at him. "Where's Jeongin!"

Jisung sees a small body wriggle through a gap in the mountain of furniture, and he bolts out of the tavern. His heart starts to pound at a rapid pace. Not his baby. Sunlight blinds him as he emerges outside, but how could there be sunlight if his is in danger?

But he's already too late. Jeongin began to rummage through the barricade, plucking dry ammunition from the dead soldiers like weeds. He briefly faces Jisung with a smirk before crawling further in. 

"What are you doing!" Jisung whispers hurriedly, desperately pressing his body close to the barricade. "Jeongin! Come back!"

Jeongin ignores his pleas, venturing further and gathering more ammunition until the furniture lightens up to where he stands on the other side. 

"Come here now!"

His brother sits in the middle of it all—vulnerable, unprotected—bullets hanging in his arms. Despite it all, he stands up tall like a soldier, like a man. A shot rings out as a warning, splintering the desk beside him and spreading the wooden chips across the blood-stained ground. Jeongin looks behind him to smile one last time at his older brother behind the wall.

Pure, unadulterated horror chokes Jisung. 

_No_. He climbs up the barricade, letting his hands scrape against the broken chairs. _No_. His throat closes up, his teeth sinking into his lips, and Jisung can't think of anything but him. _Stop_, he wants to scream until his lungs give out and his voice grows hoarse. _Please_. Even if he cuts his hands trying, even if he'll get shot, he'll make it to him—his sunshine, his music, his precious baby brother. 

"JEONGIN!" he cries before arms wrap around his waist, his chest, his arms, tackling him down. He kicks and pulls and sobs, struggling to reach for the boy who was way too young to be standing before an army. He doesn't deserve this punishment. The arms tighten around him, but it only causes him to cry out hysterically. "Stop! Stop! Jeongin! NO!"

Another shot.

Jeongin drops to his knees, clutching his stomach. 

Jisung moans, slamming his elbow backward and stunning his captors enough to finish his climb. He vaults to the other side, hurriedly sliding down. He can still make it. He can still be saved. 

Jeongin grins, dropping some ammunition when he raises his fist into the air. "VIVE LE FR—!"

His body drops before he could finish his sentence. Jisung hurries toward his fallen body where his blood forms a puddle around him. A single bullet is embedded in his chest. 

"No!" It echoes throughout the street.

The ABC members stand guard with their guns up, protecting Jisung as he shakily carries Jeongin back safely behind the walls. The French army doesn't budge an inch.

Tears stream down his face as Jisung collapses to his knees, hunching over his fallen sibling. Warm hands drag his face against a quivering chest, combing through his hair repeatedly. It is Hyunjin, who else, who can offer nothing else than to rock him like a baby. Jisung clings to him, holding onto the words the other whispers into his ear like a mantra, hoping that if he says it enough times it'll be true.

"We'll be alright. We'll be alright. We'll be alright."

And together they mourned because they both lost a family member today. 

.

.

.

Dead bodies pile up on all sides of him until the pub starts to look more like a morgue than a barricade. His chest has already numbed itself with grief. The French army stormed them right after Jeongin's death, and even with the dry ammunition, it wasn't enough to hold them back. Changbin died to a stray shot. Seungmin died clinging to him. Minho shot ten soldiers without missing a mark before getting overwhelmed with the numbers. It is a small mercy that Jisung returned to the tavern due to Hyunjin's insistence. He prays to every god in the sky that the younger chose to run away. 

A crippling trepidation wells up inside him, but he stifles it. He'll die for the France he believes in. A shot cracks near his ear, and he throws a table behind him before scrambling up the stairs. Closing the door is a useless distraction for they kick it open right after. 

Hyunjin is backed up against the window. In the chaos, the frame holding his favorite picture lays in shattered pieces on the ground. 

"The leader of the resistance, Hwang Hyunjin!" comments an officer, he and the rest of army raising their muskets to their nose. "What a befitting end for him to be the last one to be executed! How poetic."

"Then, shoot me, you cowards," demands Hyunjin with a confident smirk, but there is a tremble in his legs, a quiver in his arms. He thinks back to all the apologies he owes. To the ABC for failing to lead, to Chan who sacrificed love for the cause, to Jeongin for dragging him in, to Jisung for not listening. Maybe it wasn't worth it. Maybe he is naive. 

He shut his eyes tight in resignation, waiting for it to end. 

A new batch of footsteps makes him open his eyes. Entering the room, looking worse for wear if not for the challenging smirk on his lips and the glass of wine in his hand, is Jisung. Hyunjin's fears slip away with his presence. 

Jisung chugs the rest of his drink, raising an empty glass. "Long live the republic! For I am one of them!" He crosses the room with a firm stride and places himself in front of the guns beside Hyunjin. "Together as always, Jinnie?"

Hyunjin wants to cry, but for an entirely different reason, and with the brightest smile he presses his hand to Jisung's for once feeling like everything was going to be alright as long as they had each other on the other side.

Even after their bodies are pierced by several bullets, their hands do not separate.

.

.

.

Chan fades in and out of consciousness. The storming of the barricade seems to occur in bits and pieces, the only constant being the pain throbbing in his shoulder. He thinks of Woojin who wanted him to live for him and he thinks of Felix who is surely waiting for him at the inn, but it hurts so badly, he can't bring himself to move.

A man in well-dressed clothing approaches his crumpled body. He wraps his arms around Chan and hauls him upward, taking him away from the gunfire. Chan believes it to be a dream. 

"Stay awake, Chan," the man says. "My son needs you alive. Felix needs you."

Felix? He smiles at the thought of the elf-like beauty. His eyes droop and he's feeling a sudden urge to sleep. He hopes Felix meets a better man than him who is wealthier and smarter. Who won't participate in revolutions and die that same day. 

"Chan!"

Darkness encompasses him, and Chan passes out dreaming of a galaxy of freckles and a smile as bright as the sun.

The next time he awakes, he is patched up and lying on a comfy white bed that smells of roses. Felix sobs beside him, surging forward to embrace him tightly, kissing him soundly. Chan holds him back, but an emptiness pounds in his chest. 

He's alive. 

.

.

.

After he healed, Felix's father—that well-dressed gentleman—introduced himself as Park Jinyoung. He had read the letter initially meant for Felix that Seungmin had delivered, and concluded that Felix would be happier with Chan by his side. So, Jinyoung infiltrated the barricade with the sole intention of getting him out. 

Chan thanked him profusely, but Jinyoung shook his head and explained further. "When I was younger, I stole a loaf of bread and was sent to prison. When I got out, I had broken parole and have been on the run since. A man like me can't take care of Felix, but you can. Once we reach England, I shall depart again without him. Tell him any excuse so he'll believe you, but tell him my farewells as well. Don't worry I've left a sizeable inheritance for you both."

And with that, his savior vanished from their lives in a snap, leaving behind a broken couple who relied on each other to pick up the pieces and glue them back together in places that don't quite fit. It was hard for a long time. They lashed out at each other, argued because they didn't know how to cope with the unfairness of the world, but their love ran deep, and although it was not alright again, their progress was steady and true. 

He's in England now alongside his husband, Felix, and still, the ghosts of his friends won't leave him. They plague him while he sleeps. 

Every fifth of June, however, they come back to France, traversing the streets of Paris where Chan can smell the blood soaking the cobblestone and the gunpowder peppering the air. 

During his visit this year, he arrives at the empty tavern and sits by the bar. He used to not be able to enter without breaking down. Time wears away at the soul. 

Staring at empty chairs and empty tables, Chan wonders whether they deserved what happened to them. He can't stop wondering about the spaces his friends should have occupied. Of the stools where Jisung would greet him cheerily as he passed out cups of beer, Jeongin chattering to him about his day. Of the desks where Hyunjin would speak amiably with the other members, wide-eyed and passionate, about the future of their nation. Of the seats where Woojin would read his books, tilting his novel in Chan's direction because stories are better when there are two to tell it. Memories haunt his every step. 

A soft hand cups his cheek, gently turning his head. "Love, it's almost noon."

Chan breathes in the essence of Felix. He leans into his touch before rising again, intertwining their fingers. "Yes, we should leave. We don't want to keep them waiting."

Hand in hand, they stride past the slums, the wealthy districts, and the colleges stopping once to order a bouquet of roses. They walk until they reach a cemetery. There, a specific plot of land dedicated to the members of the resistance is reserved. Felix descends to his knees and starts to murmur his prayers.

_Seo Changbin. Kim Seungmin. Lee Minho. Han Jeongin. Han Jisung. Hwang Hyunjin._

Chan lays a pink carnation on each of their graves, glad this time there were enough. Sometimes he ran out of flowers. Sometimes he had to leave early. But even if that were to ever happen, he always had one special flower to be given above all else. He places it swiftly, but softly upon the grave. And it is only then that he takes Felix's hand once more and returns to England.

_Kim Woojin._

Resting peacefully upon his grave is a single ambrosia flower. 

.

.

.

_"Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise."_

_—Victor Hugo, Les Misérables_

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this bc I'm procrastinating writing a Jisung-centric non-au fic I'm titling "jiography." Promo for the future. 
> 
> Don't @ me about the long death scenes. I followed the books so blame Victor Hugo :,( though I did make changes so don't be alarmed. 
> 
> Me, picking who's who: so, Enjolras will be *spins wheel* Hyunjin and Eponine will be *throws dart* Woojin and Cosette is *shakes magic ball* Felix. Okay, that's perfect.


End file.
